we catch eyes
across the room
i wonder if you’re wondering
what i’m thinking, too.
i don’t know if
i’ll ever know how
we talk so much but say so little.
i want to ask you
but i’m afraid of the answer.
i want to know you
but i’m afraid you’ll know me.
i want to see you
every day
and just talk to you
and just smile at you
and just see you smile
right back at me.
i don’t want to know how you feel,
i just want to be able to hope.
and i want to hold onto that hope,
and i want to feel that hope,
and i want to sit here and wonder,
and stew in my uncertainty
and wait for the moments when my phone lights up
and i see your name
and i can just imagine our future together.
it whistles across,
almost burning
frigid and unfriendly
unlike the heat of indoors.
crossing streets, waiting for cars,
headlights reflected in the puddles.
images distorted.
faces changed.
slosh, slosh, slosh
don’t look up,
must look down.
slosh, slosh, slosh
the aching grows,
cannot be contained,
desperate to get out,
desperate to be noticed,
desperate to be cured.
slosh, slosh, slosh
the long walk will end soon.
slosh, slosh, slosh
running feet through puddled water,
chasing ducks
quack, quack, quack
as the winter slowly encroaches
he pulls his windbreaker tighter,
aching inside,
though he’s not sure why.
slosh, slosh, slosh
deliberating splashing anything water in sight,
dragging feet across the pavement
as the wind blows.
i’ve started to live my life by the “never more than four” philosophy.
this is a concept i came up to stop myself from drinking copious amounts of alcohol — my rule is never more than four drinks.
but it’s extended to other parts of my life.
never more than four to go to an amusement park or a movie.
never more than four times wearing a pair of socks before you wash them.
never more than four text conversations going on at one time.
never more than four tweets a day.
etc. etc.
never more than four.
on the benefits of aging
what’s it like to be old?
because i find myself surrounded with new experiences every day, constantly in awe of this “miracle of human consciousness,” as they say, and i can’t wait to meet new people or try new things or go to the latest, greatest, most interesting new place.
but what of the monotony of aging? of following the typical process, of finding a job or a wife or a house. of making money and saving it and on and on and on. every day the same. no new adventures, no new friends, breaking the boredom with a blank expression by breaking out the box of wine so that you can whine, so that you can remember what it’s like to feel something, because the alcohol that pours down your throat just feels like something you used to know — something you used to know well.
i have to admit it, i’m a little afraid, and i don’t know what there is to gain, and i can’t imagine being older than i am, and i can’t imagine not doing what i’m doing, and i can’t understand why anyone would want to change.
ah, but experience: therein lies the benefits of aging. therein lies the “whys” and the discoveries.
what is there to learn when you’ve never had a broken heart? a broken bone? a broken bottle of promises that no one ever intended to keep. when you grow up, you discover lies - that columbus was sort of an asshole, that you don’t deserve what you were given, that sometimes hard work doesn’t pan out like it’s supposed to, that even though it’s illegal people still do drugs. but you also discover your own truths, your own way in the world, the way you want to see things. you discover what it’s like to really be alive.
the allure of the city
I fell in love with Chicago before I arrived. I bemused myself with the anticipation of arriving, seeing the City, my first Big City, I thought. On the bus, that’s how I said to myself. Then I remembered — I live in Kansas City. Oh, but that’s no Chicago, I said. But what about St. Louis? I had been there. Still, that’s no Chicago.
There was just something about Chicago. The media, maybe. The fact that it was a tourist destination. Who came to Kansas City for fun? I actually missed the Chicago skyline on the way there. But once we had driven in, I saw all the streets and signs and lights and people and cars. Oh my. I was afraid, as I was about to step off the bus, that I was going to a city where I knew one person out of thousands — millions? — and where I had been warned of pick pockets and murderers. But here I was, a lost Kansas girl.
I fell in love with Chicago when I saw it. The buildings were so tall — I wanted to know the purpose of every one. Which companies occupied what — is that a hotel? Who works on top of the Chick-Fil-A? The ground level of the city felt so commercialized and typical. There were no shops I’d never seen before. I yearned for Authentic Chicago. I wanted deep dish pizza, or some reminder — other than the skyscrapers above me — that I wasn’t in Kansas anymore. The most I felt that was at the Chicago Tribune tower, and again on the riverfront, just admiring downtown from afar.
The architecture was beautiful. The skyline was perfect. The buildings gleamed, sparkled, made you notice them. Oddly enough, it felt like Oz, says the girl from Kansas.
So on a shallow level, I love Chicago. It’s beautiful, but I can only say I love it shallowly because of its shallowness. Catering to tourists, selling everything that sells, conforming to capitalism. Kansas City is authentic. And familiar. And complex. There’s the Plaza, where shopping happens, but it feels different. More alive. With more character. I had a hard time finding the character in ground-level Chicago.
I stand at the brunt of the whole of suburbia,
and in front of me, lined in identical rows, are perfect little boxes
perfect little houses
with two windows, and a chimney, and a front lawn, and a little dog that sometimes poops in the house
and all i want to do is reach down and grab a house
and pluck the little kid inside, and pick her up, and hold her in my hand
and look at her and say
“You.”
“I picked you,” I would tell her. “I didn’t pick your neighbor, or your best friend, or your cousin. It’s you.”
And in that exact moment, she would matter. she would matter more than anyone else, because i gave her that satisfaction of being special.
and what made her special?
nothing.
except the fact that in her perfect little house
with the perfect windows and perfect chimney and perfect lawn and perfect dog,
she was there
and i picked her.
and once she was picked, it would become clear why
and i would watch her grow up
and she would come to me for help, and ask me “why”
over and over and over again, she would ask me “why”
and it wouldn’t be enough that i picked her
because she didn’t do anything to deserve it.
she didn’t do anything to work for it.
“well, work for it,” i will tell her.
“prove it to me.”
when really, she’s already proven it. because there is nothing to prove.
but that will give her drive
and give her purpose
and her little pigtails will bounce behind her as she tries to “prove herself”
and makes it known that yes, this act of fate was just a random act
but that she does deserve it
and she will not squander her opportunity
and that she was picked for a reason, for a purpose —
but what?
“why?” she’ll ask,
over and over and over again, she would ask me “why”
even as she ages, even as she starts her own family and moves into her own box
“why me? why did you pick me? why that house?”
what reasons exist to tell her, i ask myself. there are none.
“i just stood at the brunt of suburbia,
reached down,
and there you were.”
“you weren’t ready then, but you’re ready now,”
i’ll tell her one day.
and i’ll explain
how she has proven herself
and how she is deserving
of her title
that means nothing
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